


Bewitched

by SierraLaufeyson13



Category: Black Death (2010), Sean Bean - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraLaufeyson13/pseuds/SierraLaufeyson13
Summary: Ulric and his men find a wounded woman in the woods. What if she is actually the witch they have been hunting all along?





	Bewitched

“We will not tarry for those that are doomed already.” Those had been the words spoken after the monk had carelessly tried to intervene in village affairs as they prepared to prosecute an accused witch. And so the company did not stop for meaningless follies or to give those that were suffering a quick death.

The morning came swift and so did the attack. Osmund stumbled backward, the monk was defenseless against the thieves until one fell at his feet, an arrow in his assailant's back. He thanked God but quickly came to realize that the company had no archer and so his gaze was drawn toward the trees where a small figure was perched, bow in hand. She nocked another arrow and released, this one punctured through a man's neck. Dropping from her place in the trees, she pulled out a small dagger and slashed another of the bandits across the back, opening the flesh from hip to shoulder.

But she had not been quick enough to dodge a blow aimed at her leg. The sword edge ripped through her skin and she fell, clambering to draw back her bow. She released the arrow before the man could bring his sword down upon her.

“Ulric," Wolfstan looked down at the woman, blood was seeping from between her fingers as she pressed down on upon her thigh, but she tried her damnedest to scoot backward as they company gathered round.

“It can’t be," the man breathed as he stepped forward. The familiar name was but a whisper on his tongue, “Eve.” Her brows furrowed and his clouded memories faded. Ulric knelt. "Can you walk?" He asked. She shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth it would release the cries of pain that she fought to stifle by biting down on her tongue.

"Boy!" The monk came shuffling forward, his own hand covering a bloody wound, "Give me your rope." Osmund shuffled to unknot the rope belt from his robes. Despite the battle-hardened features and near harsh stare, his actions were not ungentle as he slipped the rope above the laceration and tied it off so that the bleeding was slowed.

The woman nodded her thanks and gave a hoarse, "thank you." She expected them to leave her then but instead, they took turns bearing her weight, unable to leave her behind. It was Ulric's turn to bear her weight once more and now she was either asleep or unconscious, none of them were sure of which it was.

The monk scurried up to the leader's side, curious. “Who was she? The woman you spoke of?” It had been clear that whoever it was had once been important to the knight. There was a distant look in his grey eyes that spoke of pain and suffering. “Eve,” Ulric muttered, “She was my wife.” Nothing more was said on the matter.

She woke to a numbness in her leg, it was familiar and frightening. The wooden roof and earthen floor were familiar too. “Where am I?” It was a question spoke to no one in particular but there was a figure looming over her now, he had foregone armor and his eyes were almost kind. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Ulric,” he responded. She sat up in the small bed and looked over the thin shift that had replaced her tattered trousers and tunic. “I'm Seraphina," she said in return.

He took leave of the room when the leader of the village entered, claiming the need to switch out the bindings again. "You have returned sister," Langiva sneered, pulling the bandage tighter than need be for a moment, just to see the flash of pain form in her sister's eyes. "You will join us for the feast?" It was spoken as a question, but Seraphina knew that it was more like a command.

The dress was blue, her sister's a deep burgundy that mimicked the shade of fresh blood. Langiva washed and combed Seraphina's hair, twining flowers, and herbs through the dark braids. With a crutch beneath her arm, she entered the banquet hall and took a seat closer to the company of soldiers than her own people.

Seraphina watched her sister's pleased expression as some of the men took a third and fourth cup of ale, that was when she reached over and placed her palm over the wooden cup that the knight had lifted to his lips, understanding now that it was tainted. "Ulric, drink no more." He glanced at the woman and back into the amber liquid but sat the cup down. "Come with me."

"You're one of them," he said, anger lacing his words. He had saved her life and risked the lives of his men in the process, only to find out she was one of those that they hunted. Ulric reached for his dagger but she stayed his hand.

"I do not deny that this village is where I was born and raised," she countered, "I left years ago when my sister lost her mind. She sought to spill my blood to prove her divinity." Langiva had gone mad with her husband's death. "She is no witch, no necromancer. Her tricks are a rouse to make people believe she is powerful. Those she claims to resurrect are never dead, some she drugs to make it seem more genuine. She has fooled them all and the only thing that has protected this place has been isolation."

He shook his head, everything had become a blur, "I must bring the bishop back a body." That had been the task he was charged with, others had failed, but he would not. Seraphina frowned, he had already drunk too much of the tainted ale before he had realized. "We all must leave this place," she told him. They had a slim chance to escape under the cover of darkness.

Ulric staggered to his feet and reached out, cupping Seraphina's cold cheek. She looked so much like her, so much like his wife that her name slipped out in a soft whisper, "Eve."

Her brows furrowed, "Ulric?" His grey eyes were distant and clouded, then suddenly he collapsed to the earthen floor of the abandoned church. Seraphina knelt, her hands shaking. "Ulric!"

* * *

"Stop!” She screamed, forcing herself to walk upright and unassisted. This had happened before. Langiva turned back, eyes burning. “This does not concern you, sister.” The villagers stood in silence.

“Please, I beg of you stop this madness.” She looked up at the red witch. “Release him for the night, let me convince him to renounce.” Langiva stared down her nose at her sister with contempt but nodded for the villagers to pull the leader from the water trench. She gripped onto Seraphina's arm before she could step away. “Betray us and you will die at his side.”

Ulric walked next to her with hands still bound until they entered the decaying church that had been in disuse for some time. She used his own dagger to cut the bindings. "Go," she breathed.

He looked at her with his hard, grey eyes. “What?”

“Go," she reiterated, "leave this place.” She could not save them all, but perhaps she could save him, and others would heed his warning not to come to this village again in pursuit of a cure or a witch.

He gripped her forearm, pulling her closer to him. “I will not forsake my men in this hell," he sneered. Seraphina closed her eyes, a small frown had come over her slim lips. Ulric grasp faded into something more akin to a gentle caress. “How did God manage to fashion another to look like her?” There was fever in his eyes.

She commended him to remove his soaked tunic and he complied. His scars and bruises marred the skin, but that was not what drew her attention. Seraphina pressed her fingers against the swollen, blackish skin, realizing what it was and that soon, he would die like many others before him.

"Did you know?" She asked. He nodded. A deep set frown appeared on her fair features, she stood, gathering a sprig of rosemary and bundle of feverfew. "What are you doing?" Ulric questioned when she set the two herbs alight, letting the fragrant smoke permeate the air. 

"Repaying the kindness you showed me in the woods," she answered, setting the smoking herbs into a copper basin that had been lined with quartz points. Seraphina placed one of her hands upon his sweating brow, the other upon his chest and began to chant. "Parce illi, ut me fecit. Parce eum a morte. Parce illi, ut me fecit. Parce eum a morte."

Then her touch began to burn, but he could not shake her hands away, he could not move at all. She took her hands away from his skin and marveled at the sight, her plea had worked. The buboes that had manifested near his armpit had retreated into nothing more than a scab that could be picked off and forgotten. Ulric ran his fingers over the now smooth skin and flinched at the realization. "It's you. You're the witch."

Seraphina nodded, but she did not look proud of the title, more ashamed than anything. "And yet I pray to the same God that you do."

* * *

"Bring out the horses." Seraphina sprang forward, but someone had caught hold of her hair and yanked her back, struggling to work a gag into her mouth. "Langiva! No!"

She turned to her pleading sister, it was too late the horses were already pulling on his arms and legs. "You cannot stop this!" She exclaimed. But Seraphina could stop this, and she would. "Ardeo in flammis!" She screamed, hand extended toward Langiva. The flames came from the wet soil and jumped onto her dress and skin. Not even the water could extinguish them and her sister's screams echoed in the air.

The villagers that followed her fell silent and looked upon the girl they had cast out years ago. Seraphina rose and looked around as her sister screamed. "Unbind him and release his men." They did as commanded with the true look of fear in their expressions. The others were freed from their prison and bindings as well. She caught him before he could fall to the ground. "Ulric."

Soon his men came to stand beside them. "We must return with a body," the eldest member stated, looking at the true witch. Ulric followed his gaze and forced himself to stand. "But it will not be hers."

**Author's Note:**

> I used Google Translate to get the Latin phrases to if they're completely wrong, sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Parce illi, ut me fecit. (Spare him, as he did me.)  
> Parce eum a morte. (Spare him from death.)  
> Ardeo in flammis! (Burn in the flames!)


End file.
